It’s been what seems like years since I’ve written anything here. That is, in part, because I’ve been busy doing things: I’ve sort of written a novel, I sort of play guitar, and I’ve sort of been writing songs. Oh, and I also work and try to get things published. I also haven’t been inspired to write anything here for quite some time.
My 1/2 of the blog isn’t really supposed to be all about music, nor is it supposed to be about new music (or music that’s new to me), but that’s where it was going for a while, and that was good. It’s been a while since a new song has kicked my ass sufficiently enough for me to want to gush about it here, though I think there is one waiting in the wings. Perhaps I will post about that later.
For this post, though, and perhaps a couple of subsequent posts, I want to write about Morrissey and The Smiths. This morning I was interviewed by a really great professor, Dr. Eoin Devereux from the University of Limerick, who is working on a project dealing with the fandom surrounding The Smiths and Morrissey. This dude knows his stuff. This dude saw The Smiths live. I must have told him at least 7 times how amazing I thought that was. Anyway…
He asked me some great questions. And of course, he asked the unfair questions which he knew were unfair, like picking a favorite album. But he also asked me which songs were particularly significant to me. Another nearly impossible question to answer, though I did, and, of course, there were about 30 other songs I meant to say. In case you’re wondering, the three that came to me immediately were “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,” “Seasick, Yet Still Docked,” and “It’s Not Your Birthday Anymore.” I won’t go into why those songs mean what they mean to me; those will maybe be the subjects of their own blog posts.
But I forgot the most important one. Well, what may be the most important one. It’s a song that changed my life, because it’s the first song by The Smiths I remember really attaching myself to, and it remains in my top 5 Smiths songs still (though I’m so Rob Gordon about this stuff, it’s not even funny). The song is “I Know It’s Over” from the live album, Rank. Rank is the first Smiths album I ever listened to, so it’s very special to me.
I’m sitting here, with my Saint Morrissey candle burning, playing the song over and over while I write under the twinkle lights in my bedroom. This is my therapy. Therapy by blog, I suppose. But I’m not here to talk about why the therapy is needed at this particular moment, but instead to do what I usually do when I write about a song: explain why it makes me freak out. So, Saint Morrissey, I ask you bless what I say here. (Thank you again, SarahJo, for my Christmas present.)
The song itself is an anthem of melancholy longing – Morrissey’s forte. I mean, no one can write about longing and pining and unrequited love with such sincerity and simple pain as he can. Pair that with Johnny Marr’s jangling guitar, and I’m dead. But there’s something about this live version – maybe it’s because it’s the first version I heard – that breaks me differently than their other songs. It’s a song about regret and self-loathing, but it’s also about trying to be a human being in the face of how hard it is to be an actual human being. “It takes strength to be gentle and kind.” It really, really does. There’s something so important about that line. I know I’m a super-sensitive person; I get attached to things and people very easily, so I can’t help but be affected when gentleness and kindness are shunted and replaced with cruelty. Though, I supposed indifference might be worse. I digress, however. But yes, being gentle and kind, consistently, is super hard to do. It’s all part of the human struggle, no?
As a human being, like most other human beings, I’ve experienced my fair share of unrequited love. It’s part of the process of living. We mourn the loss of things we never even had. So when Morrissey sings, “I know it’s over/ And it never really began/ But in my heart it was so real,” well, I’m undone every time. And the way he sings this on Rank, there’s just this extra layer of emotion the pours through that line because he sings it so matter-of-factly. Of course it’s over, because there was never a start; it was never going to start, and even though you know almost always know it’s never going to start, you can’t help but let the idea of maybe/perhaps/justincase/pleasepleaseplease take root in your heart. It’s a brutality we thrust on ourselves so often.
By song’s end, Morrissey sings with much more emotion, as he repeats “Mother I can feel / The soil falling over my head” until the songs end. He soars in a falsetto, and a soft mumble, and his usual croon. And it’s hypnotic. My whole being hurts when I hear it. From roughly 5:06 to 5:26 I don’t breathe.
“I Know It’s Over” is the kind of song that ruins me and repairs me. I need it to make me feel worse so that I can use it to feel better. I need the catharsis. I tweeted something earlier, and while I was thinking of “Seasick, Yet Still Docked” when I did it, I think this little sentiment applies to this song as well (and, I’m sure, to many other songs):
It’s amazing how often the one song you need to put you back together is the one song you must first let tear you apart.
— jillian (@jillian_leslie) April 17, 2014
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